With a Minor in Murder, page 7
Clare paused, intrigued in spite of herself. “I thought you said you barely knew him.”
“We weren’t friends, but I saw him around campus enough to learn some of his habits. And if I don’t know something, then I’ll know the right people to ask and find out.”
It wasn’t conventional, but neither was Libby. Neither was Clare. And Libby was correct that the campus police were on the edge of the university. Clare could find her way around campus fairly easily now, and she was becoming familiar with more and more people in the community, but she and the other officers didn’t belong to the school the same way someone like Libby did.
“I’ll have to think about it,” Clare said. “And it wouldn’t be more than familiarizing me with his habits and schedule. I’m not going to jeopardize your safety.”
“That’s great.” Libby smiled and slid the legal pad across the table. She flipped to a blank page and started scribbling. “I never really expected you to even consider it, but I figured it was worth a shot since we’ll be doing each other a favor. I’ll give you knowledge, and you’ll save me from being signed up by my friends for a singles bowling league or something equally awful.”
Clare tried to concentrate on her curiosity about these strange but caring-sounding friends of Libby’s, but her brain seemed unable to think anything besides Hey! She’s single!
Libby stood and handed Clare the legal pad, with its top page now covered with her weekly schedule written in surprisingly legible printing. “I’ve been told I’m unbearably predictable, so this will let you find me on campus any day of the week.”
They shook hands, lingering a few seconds longer than a normal handshake.
“It was nice seeing you from the front again,” Libby said. “Although I have to admit, I’m rather partial to the other view.”
Clare shook her head, laughing at Libby’s playful reference to her stalker joke. “Careful. Flattery won’t keep you from being arrested.”
She walked out to the foyer with Libby and retrieved her bag for her. Clare watched her walk away from the station—two could play at that game—and then headed back to the interview room. Along the way, she tried to compose herself, returning her expression to the careful, neutral mask she wore while on duty. She sat in the chair Libby had just vacated, the metal still warm to the touch, and Cappy joined her after a few minutes’ wait.
“How’d it go?” Cappy asked without preamble, tossing her notebook onto the table and dropping into the empty chair.
Clare sighed. She really didn’t want to spend time chitchatting with Cappy about the weather, but she wished some of her interactions with her new coworkers could feel less clinical and cold. Her interview with Libby had felt friendlier than anything she had experienced since coming to the university. She started to smile, remembering one of Libby’s answers to her questions, and bit her lip to try to hide it.
“I talked to the three faculty members whom Turnbow beat out to get his job. A few years later, he’s got tenure and a promotion, and they’re still contract workers. Trouble is, the process is more complex than I realized. There wasn’t a clear-cut second choice back then, and now there’s no guarantee Turnbow’s vacated position will be filled anytime soon.”
“So if one of them had killed Turnbow, they’d need to be prepared to possibly take out the other two as well.”
“Yes, along with who knows how many candidates from outside U-Dub.” Clare tried to clean up Libby’s description of the interstate killing spree that would be required to clear out the competition. “Even without considering the tenure track as motive, they aren’t likely suspects. Professor Avery is over six feet tall and volunteers as an assistant coach with the rowing team. He wouldn’t have needed multiple blows to knock out Turnbow.”
The man had been huge. He had also practically jumped under the table when someone outside the room had accidentally banged an equipment cart against the door and had spent most of the interview fretting about getting home to his dog that was about to have puppies. He hadn’t struck her as a cold-blooded killer.
“Professors Johnson and Hart fit the physical profile more than Avery. Johnson just had a knee replacement in July, and he’s still using a cane, so I doubt he would have been able to haul Turnbow up that ramp.”
“And Professor Hart is far too gorgeous to have killed anyone,” Cappy said.
“She’s…wait, what?”
Cappy made a derisive sound. “Please. I saw you walking her out after your interview. It was like watching the end of a date. A really awkward date. I was worried you might try for a bumbling good-night kiss, but luckily you showed some self-control.”
“I would never—”
“I’m teasing, Sawyer,” Cappy interrupted with a frown. “Didn’t people tease each other in Seattle PD?
“Well, yes, my…” Clare hesitated, about to say my friends did, but that seemed to imply and you’re not a friend so you’re not allowed to tease, which seemed rude. And also untrue, when Clare thought back to her days on the force. Everyone had been fair game for pranks and playful banter, no matter how close they were personally. Clare didn’t think she had ever walked into the station at the start of her shift without hearing someone loudly—and with more hysteria than the tired joke warranted—complain about her car, as in that lime-green monstrosity someone just dumped on police property. She had been missing the feelings of camaraderie that she was accustomed to from Seattle PD, attributing the lack of it to her position as a lateral and rookie with this department—but her instinctive, defensive response to Cappy’s comment made her wonder if she was partly to blame for the distant way the other officers on campus communicated with her.
She crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair, assuming the most prudish sounding voice she could manage. “Call me old-fashioned, but I don’t believe in kissing after a first interview. I usually wait until the second or third.”
Cappy laughed, and Clare realized with some shock that it was the first time anyone here had done so while carrying on a conversation with her. Just how prickly had she been?
“Good one,” Cappy said. “So, I suppose they all said they were asleep between two and four in the morning? Can anyone corroborate?”
“A wife, a pregnant dog, and no one. Still, I’m not seeing professional envy as a viable motive,” Clare said, returning to the investigation. Moments of connection were fine, but she had to keep her focus where it mattered most—on solving this case and proving herself on the job, not on becoming best friends with her coworkers. She could try to lighten up with them, but her goals weren’t about to change.
“The payoff just doesn’t seem sure enough to make it worth committing a murder for the sake of their careers,” she continued. “I’m sure jealousy and pettiness are common, but I get the sense that any sabotage these three planned would be more along the lines of taking the last doughnut in the staff room. Plus, to hear Hart tell it, she’s sort of an outsider in the department and doesn’t see herself as a contender for serious advancement.”
Given time, she was sure Libby could come up with several compelling reasons why she might have wanted to murder Turnbow. She probably would enjoy the challenge of raising herself higher on the list of suspects. Clare decided not to mention any of that, and instead told Cappy about Libby’s reaction to Turnbow on the elevator. Omitting the kneeing him in the groin threat, of course.
Cappy nodded thoughtfully when Clare finished. “She’s got good instincts, in my opinion. I felt the same way about him just from talking to his wife. Apparently he was on campus last night because he had to stay late and grade some papers. Who grades papers at three a.m., especially this early in the quarter? She kept saying how busy he was lately, with so many classes to teach and meetings to attend, as if she was trying to convince herself that he was legitimately working. When I asked if she thought he was having an affair, she broke down crying. She didn’t say he was, but she also didn’t deny it. She said she was home and in bed when it happened, but her sons weren’t there. They had spent the night with a school friend after a party.”
Clare was starting to regret her rash plan to have them work separately on the case, since Cappy had spoken to what sounded like their most likely suspect. The jealous wife, pushed to the limit by one too many late-night trysts. The dream of revenge that turned panicky and messy when faced with the reality of bone and blood and muscle. If Mrs. Turnbow did turn out to be the killer, then Cappy would be the one who got the credit for uncovering her motives.
Would Clare switch places with Cappy if she could go back in time? Would she have chosen to go see the widow and to leave Libby and Cappy together in this interview room? Clare wanted to think she would have taken the path leading toward the more advantageous professional move, or the one that had her interviewing civilians instead of intimidating academics, but truthfully, she would have picked Libby all over again. Cappy probably would have arrested Libby. Or asked her on a date. Clare wasn’t sure which was the most upsetting to her, but neither should matter as much as her own career.
“Mrs. Turnbow stands to gain the most financially by his death,” Cappy said. “An amazing house, not to mention his life insurance and pension.”
“Hmm,” Clare mumbled softly, something in her mind snagging on Cappy’s introduction of monetary gain to the equation.
Cappy remained silent, thankfully letting her collect her thoughts, while Clare reviewed her mental pictures of the scene, the body, and now the fancy Mercer Island house.
“Why pose the body, then? Why risk moving it out of the shadows instead of finishing the job where he had fallen unconscious? Think about it. Pretend you’re Alicia Turnbow.” Clare shook her head slightly, trying to get Libby off her mind. This was exactly the kind of mental exercise Libby would have thought was a superfun game.
“You’re tired of your husband’s affairs, and you’ve decided to kill him. Get the money, the house, the sympathy for being the grieving widow. You gather the weapons, then either lure him to a secluded place or follow him when he’s meeting someone else. Then you hit him in the head.”
“You’re right,” Cappy said, continuing with Clare’s logic. “Why drag him into the light, where she has a good chance of being seen? She has the home, her kids are there. She had everything to gain by killing him, and nothing to gain by posing him and making some sort of symbolic point.”
“It still might be her,” Clare said. “Maybe she wanted to humiliate him, or make a spectacle of him. Kill him in a public place, but close enough to his hidden spot to bring his affairs to light. If he was really having an affair.”
“We need to find out. Was he meeting someone last night? Who was it? Did they kill him, or did they witness a murder and are afraid to come forward and admit why they were there? Unfortunately, he didn’t write Meeting with Ms. X in the bushes by the library at three a.m. on his calendar.”
Clare hesitated. This was the best opportunity she was going to get to bring up Libby’s offer, but she didn’t know Cappy well enough to guess how she would respond.
“I might have a way to find out more about his personal life—where he taught, the people he spent time with. Professor Hart offered to be sort of a tour guide to his life on campus.”
“I’ll bet she did.”
Clare rolled her eyes at Cappy’s suggestive tone but otherwise let the comment go. Personal growth.
“I might have a better chance of learning about him from his students and colleagues if she’s introducing me, and she’ll have a better idea of his daily life than we could piece together through interviews and guesswork.”
Cappy was quiet, one side of her mouth pulled down in a thoughtful frown. “Actually, it’s a good idea,” she said after a few moments. “Give it a try. Just remember, she’s not a cop, and she’s not your partner on this case. No pillow talk about our lines of investigation or sharing details of the case that aren’t public knowledge.”
“I would never…” Clare managed to stop her indignant reply when she saw Cappy smile and shake her head. So much for personal growth.
“Don’t worry, Sawyer. I know you’re the perfect professional.”
Was that the impression she was putting forward in this place? Inside, she was desperate to prove herself, and maybe outwardly she was coming across as overly formal and stiff. “I’m not perfect,” Clare said. She reached over and patted Cappy condescendingly on the arm. “I probably just seem that way from your perspective.”
Cappy’s burst of laughter warmed Clare. The thought of spending more time with Libby brought a completely different kind of heat. The prospect of having new friends—and the barely acknowledged hope of something more with Libby—made her road more pleasant but didn’t change her end goal. She would need to be careful when around Libby, not letting her personal insecurities get in the way of her investigation. They might enjoy a few moments of laughter together, and Clare might already be looking forward to the prospect of spending time with her outside of the police station, but she couldn’t imagine someone like Libby, with her numerous degrees, being friends, or more, with someone like her.
Chapter Seven
Libby sat on the floor of her office, surrounded by piles of old academic journals. She had come up with the grand idea of doing some decluttering during her office hours, so she’d pulled every issue off her bookshelves, where some had been stacked two or three volumes deep on the shelf. Her goal had been to only return to the bookshelf the issues with articles that were relevant and timely, and to repurpose the rest. She had been sitting here reading through each table of contents and imagining classroom scenarios in which she would need one of the articles to prove some fascinating point or to inspire her students to broaden their approach to the subject at hand. She had one slim journal in the giveaway stack, and that was only because she had a duplicate copy to keep.
She was aware that she was trying to distract herself from the memory of her interview with Clare, which only made her more annoyed because she hadn’t been able to move Clare far from her thoughts during this project, and now she had a huge mess to clean as well.
Her time at the police station had felt so far from her usual routine, and she had gotten carried away with the freedom of feeling as if she was someone else, doing things that Libby Hart never did. The Libby at the police station was a potential suspect, someone enough unlike her true self to be a criminal. Someone dashing and dangerous. Under the influence of her alternate self, she had found herself flirting with Clare and even offering to help with the investigation. She had mentioned Clare’s backside more than once, for God’s sake. Alternate Libby had gone rogue.
Libby sighed and returned the duplicate copy of the journal to her keep pile. What if one of her students decided to do a dissertation on the architecture of twelfth century Cistercian abbeys? They would definitely need one of the articles from this issue, and if she had two copies available, she could give this one away instead of lending it.
If Libby was honest with herself—which she was trying not to be at the moment, hoping Kondo-ing her office would keep her mind too occupied for self-analysis—she would admit that Clare had changed her mindset more than the change in venue had. There had been something so poised and controlled about her, and Libby found herself wanting to know more about the woman beneath the uniform and job. She and Clare had seemed to be such different people, and probably it was just the novelty that attracted her to Clare.
No. Libby had been intrigued by more than that. Clare had been smart and confident. Obviously very good at her job, since it wasn’t as if murders occurred at the university every day. The campus police weren’t going to put their least competent officer on the case. She surely would be able to solve the crime without needing Libby to show her around, although she had been tactful enough to say she would consider the offer instead of laughing in Libby’s face.
Libby’s friends were right about it being stimulating to expand her horizons, but they hadn’t warned her about it being dangerous because she might lose her inhibitions. She was better off sticking with the comfort of her routine, with its predictable pastries and outfits.
A tap on the door dragged Libby’s attention back to the present. She looked up to find one of her students, Angela Whitney, hesitating in the doorway, as if unwilling to disturb her if she was busy.
“Come in, Angela,” she said, sliding a pile of journals to one side. The tall stack toppled into the next one, creating a small avalanche. “Just step over all this and have a seat.” Libby got to her feet and stumbled over the books, landing heavily in her chair and trying to appear as if she had meant to fling herself forward that way. “How can I help you?”
Angela held her phone up so the screen faced Libby. “I’ve been working on topic ideas for my final paper,” she said in her soft-spoken way. Libby had to lean forward and concentrate on her to catch every word. “I thought maybe you could look at them for me and give me some advice about which would be best?”
“Of course,” Libby said, “email the notes to me right now, and we’ll go over them together.” She wasn’t surprised that Angela was already working on a paper that wasn’t due for weeks—it was the same thing Libby would have done when she was a student. She had been shy and lonely, engaging only with her teachers and with books, until she got to college. Then she had suddenly been surrounded by interesting and intelligent people her own age, and her newfound ability—and desire—to make friends had been a revelation.
Since becoming a professor, she tried to notice the students who seemed like her younger self, the ones who were interested in their classes but lacked the social skills and confidence to fully take part and connect with their classmates. Ariella called them her special cases. She held informal office hours on the steps of Denny Hall once a week, which ended up being wild and free-ranging discussions, since so many of her students—and ones she hadn’t yet had in a class—came to them. She made sure to invite those special cases of hers, and they usually slowly became part of the group, making friends who shared common interests and gaining more confidence. They often started to speak up in class as they became more familiar with her and the other students. Angela had attended every week since spring quarter. She still hadn’t broken out of her shell and rarely spoke in class even though she was very bright, and Libby expected she would have a lot to contribute. Libby was hopeful that she would eventually begin to develop friendships with the other students, although for now she still only talked with any sort of animation when she was one-on-one with Libby.
